


Connect the Dots

by UnwrittenCurse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Post Hogwarts AU, Post-Hogwarts, Reunions, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:10:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6469570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnwrittenCurse/pseuds/UnwrittenCurse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We track the story of our lives through one intersecting year and into the present, playing connect-the-dots with an impossible constellation of moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Connect the Dots

**Valentine's Day, 2006**

**3:48 AM**

I forgot to close the curtains. Through the blinds I see the streetlight glow its amber glow and I go cross-eyed. 

I sit up in bed and Crookshanks stirs beside me. I scratch his chin with affection and marvel at his capacity for forgiveness as his sandpaper tongue laps my chapped knuckles. The friction incites a wince and I push the pad of my finger into his nose. He recoils then considers me, his glowing eyes appraising, before hopping off the bed.

He’s not much of a fighter these days. We make a rotten pair as it turns out, because neither am I.

 

**7:05 AM**

As the sun halos the horizon, sleep is forgotten. I sit in the cramped living room, which is still bloated with boxes. Wrapped in my bed sheets, I cradle a steaming mug of French roast, three spoonfuls of sugar but still nightmarishly black. 

Crookshanks is once again at my side. He sits on the armrest, his head burrowed into the crease of my elbow. I can hear his vague purring. I wonder, nostalgically, if he’s remembering his heroic flight after “Scabbers” Pettigrew for which Ron holds a perpetual grudge. The notion sits heavy as the mid-February chill. 

“I won’t think about him,” I say to Crookshanks, who brushes his knotted tail against my cheek. Unintentional as it may have been, I am warmed by the gesture.

A soft cooing draws me from my chair—Crookshanks slinks off to the kitchen—and into Rose’s room. The white walls are stark. Rose fusses in her crib but calms significantly at my arrival. Her chubby arms reach for me and I sweep her into my arms, breathing her baby smell and kissing her peach fuzz curls.

“Good morning, my sweet Valentine,” I sing-song.

 

**9:02 AM**

Ginny is prompt as usual. She enters the flat in a whirl of chatter and I feel stretched thin by the task of keeping up. 

I bounce Rose on my hip as Ginny busies herself with the dirty breakfast dishes. I don’t bother arguing. She fills me in on _Prophet_ drama and Harry’s book deal and James’s teething. Her shoulders dip as she reaches for the tap and a steady stream of water patters against the steel tub of the sink. The sound rouses me and I reply, “Thanks, by the way.”

I know the question is coming, yet I still wither when it does.

“How are you and Rose doing here? I can come more often.”

She dries her hands on a towel and moves to sit at the table. The metal of the chair groans under the weight of her pregnancy; I swallow the urge to press my palm to the flannel jumper stretched taut around her swollen stomach.

“Remember to feed Crookshanks around noon. I forget a lot,” I falter.

Ginny’s eyes are pleading. I am surprised at their clarity, at the smoothness of her skin and I become starkly aware of the premature creases around my lids.

“You don’t have to come more often,” I reply. _I know you don’t want to come more often_ , I think.

“It’s not about need. Do you want me here? Do you want someone here?” 

Rose’s fingers tangle in my hair and she gurgles happily. I busy myself with disentangling her sticky digits and wiping them gently on her baby blanket, patterned shooting stars and smiling moons dirtied with days’-old food and sick stains. Ginny waits patiently. 

Finally, “I don’t want to put you out, Gin. You’re his sister. I just—you’re his sister.”

“And you’re mine,” she responds without hesitation. “I’ll come more often.”

 

**11:34 AM**

I check the address with the folded note in my pocket. This is it. 

The house sits behind a cut-stone terrace, quaint but well kept. I walk hesitantly up the gravel path, admiring the arched portico hovering over a small front porch, on which two rocking chairs sit unmoving. A large French door greets me, inviting a knock, but my arm refuses.

I stand there, frozen, hearing the dull pounding of blood in my ears.

Then the door swings open and his eyes are on my naked face and I feel a fire in my legs telling me to run. But his smile filters through me like sand until I’m too heavy. He must sense this; he takes advantage by tossing his thick arms around me in an enthusiastic hug. The fabric of his sleeve is itchy against my neck.

“Hermione, it is so good to see you!”

 _I didn’t knock_ , I think. “Your accent!” I say.

Viktor pulls away but his hands still grasp my upper arms. He holds me at arms length, surveying me in my beat up winter coat and blue jeans, and I have the self-conscious thought that he is seeing me in a way no man has for quite some time. 

“I have been living in England now for many years. My accent is much improved, do you not think?” He laughs coarsely. “But you—you have grown much, Hermione. You look very wise.”

He notices that I’m shivering and invites me inside. I step gratefully into the warmth of Viktor Krum’s home, which smells of citrus and, just faintly, of bacon grease. My stomach growls in response.

Gracefully accepting my coat, he brandishes an arm to guide me into the kitchen, which is all marble countertops and stainless steel. Polished wood floors cradle my socked feet. I turn toward the table and gasp at the display—porcelain plates laden with all the trappings for sandwiches (chicken, bacon, steak, sausage, an assortment of cheeses); a silver pot of coffee and a silver pot of tea; a deep bowl showcasing the striped, red skin of innumerable Galas; jam, mayonnaise, and butter in matching silver saucers.

“Viktor!” I exclaim, turning on him almost accusingly.

He winks coyly, then is serious. “I should have kept in touch.”

 

**1:13 PM**

“So you live alone?”

Plates empty, leftovers cold, our conversation remains animated by the details we don’t yet know.

“My cousin lives here, too,” Viktor replies. “But I sent him away for today. I told him that Hermione Weasley was coming and that we had much to talk about.”

I feel my jaw clenching at the name, but paste on a smile.

“He had a Valentine’s date,” Viktor continues, “so I am not so heartless.”

Testing the waters, I ask, “You never married?” 

His response is a playful smile. The flick of his lips unearths the memory of a boy who made things light, a boy who is now a man eyeing me with unveiled curiosity. I watch his jaw clench and unclench. I bite my lip.

“I was engaged to a girl seven years ago. We were young and I was living in Bulgaria still. But she decided that I was not part of her future and she moved to Africa. She sent me a letter and a picture of her riding an elephant. Her smile had changed.” He breathes a reflective _hmmm_ and nods. “She was right to leave.”

“Why?”

Viktor leans close. I can see the flecks of gold in his deep, brown eyes.

“She had a… what do you call… bug?” He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “Travel bug. She could not be still. Me, I have had my share of travelling. I want to live and die in this house and that will be that.”

I _feel_ myself sigh rather than consciously decide to do so. “That sounds lovely,” I say. “Truly. I’m not much of an adventurer myself, not since Hogwarts, though that was more trouble than adventure.” I laugh; its authenticity surprises me. “Sometimes I miss school.”

“Oh, I do not,” Viktor laughs. “I prefer to be old.” 

“You don’t miss your glory days?”

“No, no! I was a mean boy then.” I giggle involuntarily as he winks, then echoes, “I prefer to be old.”

He leans back in his chair, looking ever the rebel I had come to know during fourth year. His features are much the same—the sharp profile and strong chin; dark eyes that warm in time with his raucous laugh; long, thin legs that never seem to fit anywhere. I look at him now and I know that he’ll never truly change, that he’ll always keep people at an arms length, and I can’t help it—I can’t help the hand that reaches for his knee and rests there consolingly. And perhaps it’s the novelty of the reunion or the realization that we’ll likely not keep in touch or the irony of the date, but I blurt, “I left Ron.”

 

**3:47 PM**

We’ve moved to the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor with pictures encircling us. They move in dizzying patterns that threaten seasickness, but we’re laughing too hard to notice.

There’s one of us caught off guard and holding hands, me blushing and him shouting. His eyes are wild. There’s another of him diving into the Black Lake amid a gaggle of love-struck girls. And another of me reading, smiling, unaware. 

I add a picture of Rose and me just moments after giving birth, a picture that I carry in my wallet always. My cheeks are red and puffy, tendrils of hair plastered to my forehead, a sleepy smile tugging at my cracked lips. And Rose, perfect Rose, wailing until she’s almost purple. I add another of her at one month, two months, three months, and apologize for forgetting month four.

“She’s getting big,” I say. 

“She’s a monster,” I laugh.

He adds a picture of the girl who got away. Her hair is light and her eyes clear. She smiles nervously from Viktor’s lap, the latter sunny and laughing. And another of the house full of boxes, of moving days and fresh starts and Viktor is sweaty yet smiling. His eyes are always smiling.

And so we reminisce. We track the story of our lives through one intersecting year and into the present, playing connect-the-dots with an impossible constellation of moments.

 

**5:20 PM**

“I should be getting home,” I voice. “It’s nearly two hours on the train and Rose goes down around 8.”

We sit side by side on a beige loveseat, the pictures still scattered on the floor. We’ve been watching them move in silence while the sky outside gradually turns to red.

“You cannot stay?” He doesn’t turn to look at me, doesn’t move. I watch as his lips pull tight. “You do not Apparate?”

“Not lately,” I admit. I turn my body to face him directly, my knees brushing his legs. “I can’t focus and I don’t want to risk it. It’s—you know, with Rose...” 

He nods coldly.

I close my eyes and breathe into the silence.

“Thank you, Viktor,” I almost-whisper. “You can’t know how much I appreciate your contacting me. Today has been—“ He turns to me and I let the sentence fizzle out. His eyes aren’t smiling; they’re fierce.

I worry he’s angry and I want to ask why, but when I open my lips to speak they are claimed by his. His rough hands are in my hair, unraveling my bun, wild tendrils spilling over my cheeks and he is greedy—he pulls me underneath him and I realize I am greedy too. 

My hands crawl to his chest, where I feel his muscles pulling, his heart frantic. His lips trace my jaw and dust my neck. A guttural moan betrays my pleasure. He works meticulously at my blouse, button by button, until he’s pulling it over my arms and it’s billowing to the ground like a parachute. I pause to watch it float. Viktor does not.

His mouth trails down my chest to my navel and I feel my eyelids flutter. He tilts his head to meet my gaze, assuring that my attention is on him and only him before moving his fingers to the waistband of my jeans. He runs a finger against the border where my skin meets fabric.

He waits for permission.

I frown.

“Viktor...”

Without missing a beat, his lips are on mine again. His tongue flicks against my upper lip and I arch my body against his, his right arm looping around my back to hold me up. I am burning for him. As he pulls his shirt up over his head and tosses it savagely aside, I burn and burn with the anticipation of sex with a man who, when I was fifteen, pulled me into an empty aisle in the library and kissed me so sweetly I thought I could marry him right then and there. And yet I find myself pushing him off with both of my palms and dissolving onto the floor, crumpling our constellation of pictures, _because there is Ron_. There is always Ron.

I sit with my bare back against the couch, bury my face in my hands, and cry.

 

**9:17 PM**

Crookshanks circles my legs as I walk into my apartment, mewling and nipping at my jeans as a rebuke for my absence. I kneel to plant a kiss on his head. “Truce?” I whisper. He licks my nose in approval.

I enter the living room with Crookshanks at my heels to see Ginny asleep in the armchair. I gently nudge her awake. She blinks fearfully and then readjusts herself as recognition descends.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, playing the role of repentant adolescent. 

Ginny yawns. “I’m glad you had a day out. You know how Harry must've loved showing off James at work, and I loved having little Rosie as my valentine,” she tells me, happily, then adds, “How is Krum?”

I melt into the couch, pressing a cold hand against my burning cheek. No answer I give could sum everything that I want to say.

“Good, I think,” I choose. “Seems lonely. Of course he wouldn’t admit to it.”

I hear Ginny’s laughter and manage a weak laugh myself. She stands and stretches, her jumper rising to reveal a white band of rounded stomach. As she gathers her belongings—a trashy romance novel (“I’m eight months pregnant, this is as much action as I get!”), her car keys, and today’s issue of the _Daily Prophet_ —I watch her through drooping lids. Her movements are painstaking and exact. I ache for the delicateness and wonder of her pregnancy, the sensation of carrying Rose now so faint a recollection.

“Do you think you’ll see Viktor again?” Ginny says, stirring me to attention.

“No,” I admit quickly. 

Ginny nods sadly, but I catch the glint of hope in her eyes. It urges me forward.

“I was thinking of bringing Rose to see her dad tomorrow,” I try out. “Will you and Harry be free?”


End file.
